Women at War: A heart-wrenching WW2 historical novel from the author of The Women of Waterloo Bridge.

By Jan Casey

***Pre-order Jan Cacey's latest historical novel, The War Artist, now!***

Two women. One war.

For Viola Baxter, 1939 was supposed to be a wonderful year. After meeting and falling in love with dashing Fred Scholz at Cambridge University, they planned to marry and start their new lives together. She never imagined her father would say no to the marriage. Fred is half-German and, with war fast approaching, he must travel to Germany to bring his sister home. But that journey is enough for others to suspect him... and Viola.

When Annie Scholz heard her beloved grandmother was seriously ill, she wasted no time rushing to Germany to be by her side. She didn't realise it meant she would not be able to return home to the UK, or that her decision would endanger her brother, Fred, as well. Even reuniting with her childhood beau is bittersweet – how can she love someone who stands for everything she opposes? With everyone watching Annie and Fred so closely, there is no room for error... or dangerous resistance.

With war the only certainty, there's just one thing in question: where do Viola and Annie's loyalties lie? Women at War is the thrilling and heart-wrenching new WW2 story from Jan Casey, author of The Women of Waterloo Bridge.

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What readers are saying about Women at War:

'[A] captivating, heart wrenching saga... I adamantly recommend' - 5* reader review

'A story of courage and hope' - 5* reader review

'I love this book... This book drew me in straight away and I just wanted to keep on reading until I finished it. A lovely story' - 5* reader review

'Poignant, warm, gut wrenching and hopeful, this book is just beautiful. I stayed riveted the entire time and could not put it down' - 5* reader review

'The book is full of fervor and the characters grow from beginning to end! I could not put the book down!' - 5* reader review

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Feb 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781838930752

Jan Casey

Jan Casey's novels, like her first – The Women of Waterloo Bridge – explore the themes of how ordinary people are affected by extraordinary events during any period in history, including the present. Jan is fascinated with the courage, adaptability and resilience that people rise to in times of adversity and for which they do not expect pay, praise or commendation. Jan is also interested in writing about the similarities as opposed to the differences amongst people and the ways in which experiences and emotions bind humans together. Jan was born in London but spent her childhood in Southern California. She was a teacher of English and Drama for many years and is now a Learning Supervisor at a college of further education. When she is not working or writing, Jan enjoys yoga, swimming, cooking, walking, reading and spending time with her grandchildren. Before becoming a published author, Jan had short stories and flash fictions published.

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Also by Jan Casey

The Women of Waterloo Bridge

WOMEN AT WAR

Jan Casey

AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS

www.ariafiction.com

First published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

Copyright © Jan Casey, 2021

The moral right of Jan Casey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN (E): 9781838930752

ISBN (PB): 9781800246034

Cover design © Lisa Brewster

Aria

c/o Head of Zeus

First Floor East

5–8 Hardwick Street

London EC1R 4RG

www.ariafiction.com

For my daughter, Kelly and my son, Liam. With all my love.

Contents

Welcome

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Become an Aria Addict

1

July 1939

Many days have wonderful moments within them. Some are so good they allow us to hold fast to the feelings of well-being they create for longer periods of time; twenty minutes, half an hour, an hour or two. And on a few, which can be counted on one hand, time ticks by in what promises to be a coming together of perfect unison amongst oneself, others, the surroundings, the light and the atmosphere. And then there is the disappointment that inevitably ensues when those promises fail to come to fruition.

But today would be different. Was different. Nothing could sully or defile the cloudless, crystalline sky, so clear as to be almost translucent. Try as she might, Viola could not blink open her eyes for longer than a second to follow the flight of a collared dove or a blackbird, chaffinch, goldfinch or some other bird that appears on matchless British summer days, like smudges on the palest of blue china.

The boys were hitting a tennis ball back and forth in a half-hearted, laconic way behind the greenhouse and sheds that stood beyond the small orchard. The dull thump of their plimsolls on the lawn and the ball meeting taut racquet strings came to her in a muted, rhythmic pattern; she was sure she could smell the dust they kicked up. Laughter carried over as they taunted each other with jibes, then one or another shouted a congratulations of ‘Shot!’ followed by twigs snapping as they retrieved the ball and lined themselves up to start all over again.

There was the cushioned thud of a plump apple falling into the grass; the leaves of a tree quivering as another was plucked by one of her brothers. On their way to inspect the hollyhocks or roses or foxgloves, bees swooped in and out of earshot. As a warning, she flapped her hand when one of them buzzed too close to her face.

Under the willow, she felt shaded and cool even though the heat found a way through the lustrous branches that swayed almost to the ground. Mum had left an earthenware jug of elderflower cordial and three glasses on the table. Viola filled one and sipped the sweet juice that always reminded her of summer as it ran down the back of her throat, leaving her tongue tingling.

Pitch lay beside her, his eyes closed, his coat sweltering when she parted it with her fingers. She poured cordial into his bowl and pushed it under his nose where he lapped it without moving his head an inch. ‘Lazy Pitch,’ she murmured, laughing out loud at the irony. ‘Lazy Vi, too,’ she said. But the day, she decided, was made to be lackadaisical.

She flopped back against the canvas deckchair and thought about Fred speaking to her father in his study at this very moment. This perfect moment. On this perfect day. She smiled when she imagined him, tall and determined with eyes as blue and pellucid as the sky, striding across the lawn to her any minute now, telling her it was all settled.

Fred. Who would have thought she would find herself in this position with Her Fred as she now called him? She hadn’t. Not when the other girls working in the university library started to giggle and nudge her when he came in yet again asking for her, and only her, to assist him in finding more and more obscure books to help with research for his thesis. Not when he happened to be propped against a tree next to the side entrance of the grey building when she finished her shift, frowning into a book on his open lap – a book he fumbled with and let fall the minute she appeared. And not when he turned up in the pub with his friend, George, asking if they could sit with her and her crowd although they were surrounded by a number of empty tables. She smiled to herself.

He made her laugh on those occasions, but he was also a thoughtful and rational conversationalist – everyone listened when he spoke. On one particular day, he didn’t come to the library to look for her over the heads of those in front of him in the queue and she felt deflated. Another time, she caught herself turning towards the door of the pub every time it was pushed open and realised that her heart dropped when a shorter, darker-haired man with less of a well-built presence appeared.

But still she dismissed that she felt anything for him until he asked her to meet him one evening. It was early autumn, so she decided to wear a light jacket and she remembered now how giddy and girlish she felt when deciding which brooch to pin on it – like an agitated bottle of champagne that was ready to pop. She thought she’d be nervous alone with him in the pub, in the Arts Cinema, on the walk home. Instead she felt the fizz of anticipation and a deep comfort, both at the same time. When they said goodnight, she knew they would see each other again as he had wrapped his college scarf around her neck against the first frost. Disappointment had overwhelmed her when he hadn’t kissed her goodbye, but he soon made up for it. That thought caused as much heat to rise from her skin as did the blazing day.

Sunshine and contentment allowed the book she was holding to slip from her fingers to her lap to the ground where it lay, cover up, next to the sluggish dog. She gave up the battle with her weighted eyelids and succumbed to sleep.

*

Gooseflesh spotted her arms when she woke. The boys had retreated to the house and her book was wet and sticky from the cordial that Pitch must have upended when he refused to be left behind. Gusts of warm, damp wind ruffled the branches of the willow and tossed the hollyhocks from side to side as if they were lost at sea.

The air had become heavy and burdensome and it felt as if she alone were holding up the sky with her head and shoulders. Fred was standing next to her, his jaw set stiff and tense. She looked down at his hand on her shoulder, moulded into a rocky fist, and wondered at how swiftly a day such as this could deteriorate. Because she knew with certainty that it had.

‘Fred, whatever has happened?’ Viola asked, rising to face him. ‘What did Dad say?’

Fred placed both his hands on her shoulders and eased her back down into the deckchair, the bright yellow and blue stripes mocking her with their frivolous reminder of a seaside holiday. She sat and looked up at him, her mouth agape and heart pounding.

‘Fred,’ she demanded again.

He pulled his hands through his dappled brown hair. ‘He said no.’

‘But I… I can’t… How could he? Fred, why would he?’

Fred sat on the grass next to her, his shoulders sagging in his summer-weight jacket. He plucked up handfuls of grass and weeds and earth and slung them towards the root of the tree. ‘He’s taking care of you,’ he managed at last, each syllable delivered in a concise, controlled way.

Viola stared at him. Fred kept his eyes down. ‘If, Frederick Albert Scholz, this is your idea of a joke it’s not at all funny. Not at all.’ A drop of tepid rain glanced across her cheek as she waited. ‘Fred,’ she hissed. ‘Please tell me you’re winding me up.’

‘Viola Victoria Baxter,’ Fred said, lifting his head to look at her. ‘I wish I was.’

‘But… But…’ Viola rose and pushed away Fred’s hand. She felt for the collar of her blouse and pulled and scrunched at the soft material. The garden seemed to tip on its side and blur around the edges. There was nothing to hold on to, nothing stable under her feet. Everything that existed in concrete terms was bound up in Fred.

‘Viola, sit down.’ There was an edge of alarm in Fred’s voice.

‘The countless times he’s made you welcome here.’ She began to pace in circles. ‘Both he and Mum. What did they think was happening between us? How could they think we were not leading up to this? This… hope for a future together.’ Her head was spinning and she clutched at it to steady the turmoil that made her want to be sick.

Fred grabbed her and held her against him. Viola could feel the shallowness of his breathing, the banging of his heart, the tick, tick, tick of his quick pulse. She put her arms under his jacket and his shirt was slick with sweat. ‘I cannot tell you now.’

Viola pulled back and scoured the lines around his eyes, the trimmed beard, the streak of sunburn on his straight nose. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

‘After dinner,’ he said. ‘When there is more time I will tell all that was said.’

As if she’d been waiting, Mum appeared on the terrace. ‘Dinner in twenty minutes,’ she said. ‘Just enough time to freshen up.’

Viola could not believe what she was hearing. Her eyes, she knew, pleaded with Fred for an explanation, but he placed a hand under her elbow and steered her towards the house. She could feel that every step he took was charged with bridled anger and she was frightened for him. And for herself.

As they stepped into the house, she looked back over her shoulder into the garden. What remained of her perfect day was nothing more than a spurious shambolic mess. Roses and hydrangeas bounced down towards the dry earth as they were bombarded by fat raindrops; apples lay rotting on the patchy, brown grass; a ruined book; an abandoned jug of sugary water; a muddy tennis ball under a fuchsia bush. If indeed the perfection she had perceived, or conjured up, had existed at all, she knew it had disappeared and would never be restored.

2

The powdery blue silk stared at her from its padded hanger at the front of the wardrobe. She and Lillian had taken hours to find it, traipsing up and down Oxford and Regent Streets arm in arm, weighing up the pros and cons of silk versus taffeta, short sleeves rather than three-quarters, a full or fitted skirt. Lilac or grey. Burgundy or blue.

It had been a lovely day. Viola thought back to meeting her friend at Paddington and how they’d thrown their arms around each other after they’d alighted from their respective trains, happy to be together again after five weeks apart.

‘So,’ Lillian said, ‘the time has come, has it? Fred is going to ask your father for your hand. How quaint of him.’

Viola elbowed her friend. ‘Don’t tell me you wouldn’t like a man to be as courtly and well-mannered on your behalf.’

Lillian put her hand on her heart and said, ‘I would not like a man to be as courtly and well-mannered on my behalf.’ She pursed her red lips and raised her dark, sculpted eyebrows. ‘And neither did you until Fred came along and flexed his muscles at you.’

‘I know.’ Viola sighed. ‘But the courtliness is something that goes with everything else about him and that everything else is just right for me. Perfect, in fact. And I don’t think he in any way takes away from my independence. Or wanting to be independent as much as possible.’ She peered at Lillian for her approval and understood that the gesture was none too independent either. ‘Do you? Or are you telling me now that you aren’t accepting of him?’

Lillian smiled widely, wrinkling her nose in the charismatic manner that won over everyone she met. ‘Of course I do,’ she said. ‘You know that. He’s a fine young man and I’m sure you’ll be very happy together. Now, what’s first: the shops or tea or a drink?’

They discovered the perfect dress in Selfridges. Lillian said the cornflower colour would contrast splendidly with Viola’s dark green eyes and also be a good match for Fred’s pair of icy blues. Viola was taller than average and the way the fabric draped accentuated her long slender arms and legs. ‘I especially like the belt,’ Viola said, studying herself in the full-length mirror. ‘It gives me more of a waist.’

Lillian laughed. ‘You’ll be pleased with your slim figure when you get older. I’m going to look lumpy and bumpy like my mum when I get to her age.’

‘Yes, but now when it matters you go in and out in all the right places. I look like one of my brothers. And what twenty-four-year-old woman wants to look like a thirteen-year-old boy?’

‘Well, that’s what you get for running around playing tennis with them all the time.’

The assistant drew back the curtain and looked Viola up and down and up again. Then she nodded. Behind her back Lillian crossed her eyes and did the same. Viola had to stifle a guffaw.

‘You look stunning, my dear,’ the assistant said. ‘Is this for a special occasion?’

‘My engagement.’

‘Your fiancé is a very lucky man,’ she said, the bun at the back of her head bobbing.

Lillian stuck her fingers in her mouth and feigned being sick.

‘Don’t you agree?’ The assistant turned just as Lillian ceased her theatrics.

‘Absolutely.’ Lillian snapped to attention. ‘They make a lovely couple.’

The dress would be wrapped and delivered to Cirencester. They spent the rest of their time browsing the jewellery counters in a number of stores, scrutinising shoes, stockings and undergarments. When they parted after dinner and a couple of drinks, with promises to write until they saw each other again when the new term started in Cambridge, Lillian leaned in close to Viola’s ear and said, ‘Although it really is a load of old tosh, I do think I could get used to a man being courtly and well-mannered on my behalf. At least I’d like to give it a go.’

Viola laughed out loud then kissed Lillian on her cheek. ‘Auf Wiedersehen, meine Liebe,’ she recited her customary goodbye.

As she sprinted for her train, Lillian chanted her usual ‘Au revoir, mon amour,’ over her shoulder.

Viola watched Lillian rush towards her platform, her sturdy legs in their seamed stockings moving in between wandering passengers with confidence. They blew one last kiss towards each other, waved with curled fingers and then Lillian was gone.

*

Now Viola balled the silk in her hands and threw it into the dark, dusty depths of her wardrobe. An immediate rush of guilt made her scramble for the creased garment and press it to her chest. She started to cry, not soft, feeling sorry for herself tears, but a hot, angry flood that she had to use all her willpower to subdue.

With the same self-control, she stopped her tears and stood, putting the dress back on its plush hanger. It was beautiful. Sniffing, she wiped her nose on the handkerchief she kept up her sleeve. She could feel the muscles of her face harden one by one. With resolve, she smoothed the fabric as best she could with her damp hands. She would need to wear it when her engagement went ahead. Her engagement to Fred.

Viola heard Mum’s refined, measured footsteps making their way across the landing to the stairs, followed by the light scuffle of her brothers. ‘Boys,’ Mum scolded. ‘How many times must I tell you? No playing on or near the stairs.’

‘But he pushed me,’ Robert said.

‘Only because he shoved me first,’ fired David.

‘Neither of you should be pushing.’ Viola could picture Dad hurrying to catch up, his hands going through the motions of knotting his tie. ‘And don’t give Mum your cheek.’

Their chattering faded and she recognised the sharp click of Fred’s steps as he trailed behind the rest of her family, not wanting – she imagined – to put himself in the awkward position of having to make small talk with them. She listened as he slowed down near her door and knew that, if he knocked, she would not dare allow herself to answer only to be told again she would have to wait until after dinner for an explanation. Fred, too, must have understood the futility of their meeting at this stage as his footsteps resonated momentarily then became muffled before the landing was silent again.

Viola flicked through her wardrobe for an alternative ensemble, but nothing seemed appropriate. All the items she should wear were too dressy, too full of carelessness and fun; they all spoke of celebration or at least happy, optimistic times. She crossed her arms and determined that she would not be made to reflect what she most certainly did not feel. At the back of the rail, where they had been since the end of term, hung the two outfits she alternated for work: a knee-length, box-pleated tartan skirt and another of grey serge that she mixed and matched with either a cream or grey blouse topped with a bottle green or black cardigan.

They were drab and serviceable and looked like they meant business in the library where she dragged out books from long-forgotten shelves and put them back in place when students had finished their research. It was a standing joke between her and Fred that he could ever have found her attractive when he first saw her behind the desk and asked her to retrieve a manuscript about Medieval German literature for his doctorate paper. He liked to tease her that he had found it difficult to see beyond the high necklines, the buttons, the thick material, but his eyes and in time, his hands and mouth, told her a different story.

What were they to do now? Go back to those days when they did nothing else but flirt with each other? When they danced and skirted around their feelings? They had been lovely times and she would treasure the memories, but they were ready to move things forward and she couldn’t imagine them living in limbo for long.

Viola sat on the edge of the bed to pull on badly mended stockings. They were, she decided when she looked closer, the very pair she’d been wearing when Fred proposed. But they weren’t in such a state then. They’d been brand new and had felt silky and lustrous next to her skin. ‘I’m going to take you somewhere very special for your birthday,’ Fred had said. ‘I’ve booked a table for half seven this Friday.’

She knew he didn’t have a lot of money, so wanted to show how much she appreciated the gesture by looking as pleasing as she could and the stockings, along with an evening bag and new lipstick, had been her purchases for the evening.

She remembered how handsome Fred looked when he’d turned up in his college tie, his shoes gleaming – she’d felt so proud on his arm. The Bull Hotel was beautiful; the food and wine excellent; the pianist unobtrusive. But she smiled when she thought of how disappointed she’d felt when it seemed as if the Fred she knew had been left behind in his rooms and in his place was a stammering, fidgety, uncomfortable Fred. ‘Are you quite alright?’ she’d asked several times.

In reply he’d either said, ‘Yes, of course,’ much too quickly or somehow nodded and shook his head at the same time.

Before dessert was served, Viola had excused herself and when she returned Fred looked so serious and distracted that she’d feared she was going to be cast aside. Fred had reached for her hand and said, ‘Vi.’

‘Yes, Fred?’ she’d said, bracing herself for the worst.

‘There is only one thing that could make me happier than I am at this moment in time. And that is if you will agree to be my wife.’

For a moment she had been so stunned that she couldn’t speak.

‘Vi?’ Fred had said again. ‘If you need some time…’

‘No,’ she’d blurted out. ‘I mean yes. I mean no to the time to think. And yes to be your wife.’ And she’d burst out laughing, all tension magically lifted.

Laughter was the farthest thing from her mind now as she chose the grey skirt, the grey blouse, the black cardigan, the flat, black lace-ups. She used two combs to scrape back her hair, lank from the rain and wind, behind her ears. There would be no jewellery tonight, she thought, but pulled the cardigan together with a dull chain.

Through the dining room door, Viola could hear muted discussion but couldn’t make out the gist of the conversation beyond a few scattered words that filtered past the wood and fittings: Germany, the situation, German, the papers, the news, Parliament. She watched herself place her palm on the door handle, but somehow, she could not bring herself to apply pressure and enter the room. There was what seemed to be an inept and artless silence, then one of the boys, probably Robert, said something and the others laughed in an overblown, unnatural way. At that exact minute in time, frozen in inertia, she felt isolated. As if she didn’t know any of the people beyond the door and perhaps never had.

‘Ah, Miss Viola.’ Abigail walked towards her, a steaming bowl of something in her hands. ‘You’re here. Shall I serve or wait for Mrs Baxter’s say-so?’

Still her hand felt immovable. ‘Please wait for Mum,’ Viola said, wary that her thin, tremulous voice might give her away.

‘Of course.’ Abigail looked at her more closely. ‘Are you quite well, Miss? The heat is oppressive. Perhaps you would like me to call your mother. Or young Mr Scholz?’

Viola shook her head and pressed down with determination on the handle. ‘No, thank you, Abigail. I’m fine.’ She smiled to prove the validity of what she’d said and Abigail carried on to the kitchen from where she could enter the dining room behind Mum’s place at the table.

‘A-ha.’ Dad rose from his chair as did Fred, who within three strides was by her side offering his arm to support her. ‘Boys.’ Dad looked at Robert and David over the top of his spectacles as they clamoured about and rose to their feet.

‘We thought perhaps you’d changed your mind about dinner.’ Dad turned his head and coughed into his hand to cover, Viola thought, his embarrassment at the lack of courtesy she displayed in her careless manner of dress. Fred led her to her chair, next to his, his hand rigid on her forearm again, as if he was trying to contain the vast dimensions of the anger they both felt within his grip. Well, it would take more than that gesture to quash the exasperation that was swelling inside her by the minute. She knew it had nowhere to go other than out into the open. She waited for Dad to comment on her appearance, but in what was an uncharacteristic act of defiance towards his own strict code of etiquette he turned to his wife and said, ‘Edith, shall we start?’

Fred eased her into her chair whilst Mum looked on. For a beat or two her mother’s eyes were round with incredulity and alarm. ‘Edith.’ Dad peered into his wife’s face. ‘Will you call on Abigail?’

Mum peeled her eyes from Viola and said, ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ She picked up a tiny brass bell from the sideboard behind her and holding it between a trembling thumb and index finger, tinkled it twice with habitual delicacy.

Abigail glided in with the lightest of footsteps and the occasional swish of white apron fabric. Backwards and forwards she marched with bowls and platters of food that Viola, in her distraction, could not name and could not imagine tasting. ‘Thank you, Abigail,’ Mum said when the young woman went to dish up onto the plates. ‘We’ll help ourselves. And please thank Cook. It all looks lovely.’

Mum proceeded to pass the carrots, cabbage, peas and steaming new potatoes to her right and Dad held the serving plate piled with lamb for Fred who helped Viola and then himself. Viola looked down at what was usually her favourite meal and her stomach turned. The slices of meat that were not drowning in a bed of greasy, gelatinous gravy were turned up and greying at the edges. Running through the slabs of meat were strings of white fat that reminded her of the thin spittle that drooled from Pitch’s mouth.

Viola looked from her plate to Fred and wondered what Mum’s reaction would be if she emptied the contents of her stomach all over it. ‘Here,’ Fred said softly. ‘Allow me.’ He pushed back his chair and walked around the table to hand the platter to Robert.

Except the occasional ‘thank you’, ‘yes please’ or ‘it smells lovely’, no one spoke until each dish and accompaniment had been around the table and placed to rest on the sideboard.

‘I do hope no one minds not having soup?’ Mum asked, looking at each person around the table in turn. ‘I thought it wise to abandon the idea on such a humid day. Robert,’ she addressed her older son, who was always hungry. ‘Do you mind awfully?’

His mouth full, Robert shook his head. As he swallowed, the protruding Adam’s apple that had lately made an appearance bobbed up and down. ‘No, I don’t mind, Mum,’ he said. ‘As long as there’s seconds and a good lot of pudding.’

Mum and Dad laughed. ‘I’m sure you’ll have plenty,’ Dad said. ‘And if not, you’ll have to raid the orchard before bed. But I don’t think it will come to that as Viola doesn’t appear to be the least bit enthusiastic about her dinner, so you could always have hers. Come now, Viola, you must eat.’

The wide-eyed look Mum gave Dad implored him to desist. Fred nudged Viola with his foot. The curtains blew out then bulged in through the half-open French doors. The clock in the hall chimed eight and Abigail entered to turn on the sidelights. Rain drummed against the windows.

But Viola had had enough. ‘Must I, Dad?’

The boys stopped eating and stared at their sister and parents in turn.

‘Yes, my dear.’ Dad’s voice was gentle and kind, not at all what Viola had been expecting and the sudden change made tears throb behind her eyes. ‘You must. I insist.’

She picked up her cutlery and cut a small potato in half, speared it to a slice of cabbage and dangled it in mint sauce and gravy. ‘Why must I?’

Dad sighed. ‘Because, my dear. Because…’

‘Because if you don’t, you won’t grow big and strong,’ David said. ‘Like Dad. Or Fred.’

Viola managed to smile at her little brother, who hated bad feeling and would do anything to please; she was sure he had been a Labrador in another life or would be in the next. He smiled back, revealing teeth still too large for his mouth, his dark, silky hair streaked red from the sun skimming his forehead. Then he reattacked his meal with gusto as if he had put all that was wrong in the world right.

‘But I am grown as much as I will ever be, David,’ Viola said, the food on her fork growing cold. ‘In fact,’ she addressed Dad. ‘I am a grown woman and therefore have a right to—’

‘Oh, can’t we eat in peace?’ Mum pleaded. ‘We never argue at the table. It plays havoc with the digestion.’

‘We never argue full stop,’ said Robert. ‘So why—’

‘Enough,’ said Dad, throwing his serviette next to his plate. ‘You must eat to keep up your strength. As must we all.’

Mum reached for her wine glass; Robert shovelled in the last of what was on his plate.

‘Another war will soon be upon us. It is imminent.’

Viola cried out, ‘But what has that to do with me and Fred and our engagement?’

‘Everything,’ Dad said, pushing his plate away and leaning back in his chair. ‘I’m afraid that it has everything to do with it. Besides the fact that he is German…’

‘Mr Baxter,’ Fred blurted out, unable – Viola thought – to hold his peace any longer. ‘I must protest. We have been over this many times. I am a British citizen.’

‘Yes, Fred and also a German citizen. And—’ Dad turned to Viola ‘—a German citizen who is going to Germany tomorrow when the situation is so highly unstable.’

‘Yes, I know that.’ Viola could hear the growing frustration in her voice.

‘But I don’t think you know that he is going against the advice of the British government who have announced that they cannot, after today, guarantee safe passage back to England from Germany.’

All Viola could manage was a feeble and tremulous, ‘Fred? After that news, surely you must reconsider.’

‘Viola.’ Fred raised his hands towards the heavens in a gesture of helplessness. ‘You know the dilemma with my sister.’

Dad interlaced his fingers and turned to Fred. ‘One thing we haven’t addressed, Frederick, is why Annaliese is in Germany at all. Given the volatile crisis between our two countries.’

Fred’s discomfort was plain for all to see in the dark purple colour on the tips of his ears. He stammered and